


Appetite For Destruction

by Vivian



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Murder, Rape (not our good Will)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A new case brings Will closer to Hannibal.</p><p>“Why did it fascinate you?”<br/>“Dunno. Guess 'cause it was still so artistic. Maybe even this interplay of cruelty and literal art … 'S like you know it's bad but it's still beautiful. You just can't help yourself.”<br/>“So contradicting. To create such art surely is blissful.”<br/>Will looks up at him, for a second their gazes meet.<br/>“It's like seduction,” Will murmurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appetite For Destruction

 

_(…) and this time everything that fell into my hands had to perish._

_Lautréamont_

 

 

The bed creaks. Sweat soaked sheets. The cloth clinging to his body.

He shifts. Turns around. Fast breathing. Furrowed brow.

A drop of sweat, illuminated by his alarm clock. Rolls down his temple. The alarm clock display: 5:08 am. His breath hitches.

Ring. Ring.

Then he's awake. His heart beating. Fast.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

With a swift motion he grabs his mobile phone.

“Yes, hello,” he pants.

Jack's voice is grave and deep on the other side of the line. He tells him to prepare. Advises him not to eat anything.

 

 

Half an hour later he is at the crime scene.

The sun is rising. The sky is anthracite, fading to grey. The grass still wet from the last night's rain. It stains their trousers legs. Will shifts his glasses up his nose and takes a look around in the empty park. Empty except for the FBI agents. Yellow-black tape frames the crime scene.

Beside him Jack breathes in heavily. Then he sees why. For a moment the chattering around him seems to stop.

He gazes upon pale, bloody thighs. Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes caught the morning dew. Ebony curls frame her face, fall down on small breasts.

Between her spread legs glimmer in bloody wetness her heart, her liver, her kidneys and her spleen.

“She was cut open,” Beverley says quietly, pointing to her thighs, “and then he must've reached in and torn that out.”

A pale police officer walks to them. “We found this here.” He holds up two plastic bags. In his right is a bloody clasp-knife, in the left is a note. With trembling fingers he passes both to Jack.

“What does it say?” Will asks.

“It says … 'I thought you were a rose'.”

 

Then he's alone with the girl.

Blood crawling over the grass, back into her body. Her thighs ivory again. Then she's dressed. Sitting in the grass, smiling. As he steps to her. She looks up. Will throws himself on her. Raw power and lust. It's noon and she's crying. It doesn't stop him. When he's finished he stands up, tugs himself away. This is not all. Something is missing here. Something else happens.

Then he opens up the clasp-knife. Bright sunlight glistening on the blade. Reaches between her legs. She screams and fights. She's not strong enough. Will pushes the blade in. Turns it around. Hush, darling. Her screams fade. Just now. Thrusting the blade deeper, cut, cut, cut. His sleeve is soaked in blood up until his elbow. He reaches in. Grabs and pulls. Breathing heavily. Will cleans his hand with a handkerchief. Then he takes out the already prepared note. Places it carefully. Throws the knife away. This is my design.

 

 

“What do you see?” Jack's deep voice suddenly behind him. He turns around to face him. Swallows.

“He's a poet.”

“What?”

“He considers himself a poet.” Will gestures to the dead girl. “This … this is his poem.”

 

 

They are in the morgue. Her body on cold steel. _Jane Doe_ on the name-tag hanging from her right foot.

“We found sperm inside her,” Beverley said.

“So she was raped before?”

“Yes … but that's not all.” She seems close to running to the toilet and spilling her guts out. “She was raped twice. First by our killer and second … by a bulldog.”

“What?” Jack asks unbelieving.

“Yeah. Don't ask. Never seen something like this before,” she murmurs.

“And he considers himself a poet? Will, are you sure?”

Will nods. Yes. This man wants to be an artist.

 

-

 

The leather creaks underneath his weight.

He leans back. Breathes in. Closes his eyes.

“So, how do you feel, Will?” Hannibal's voice is smooth, laced with his Lithuanian accent.

He keeps his eyes closed for another heartbeat. Then opens them. His gaze flickers to Hannibal's knees, then to his dark-bronze tie. He pulls his lower-lip in between his teeth.

“I don't know. It feels … familiar.” The last word tastes strange on his tongue. Not quite there.

Rustling of clothes. Hannibal leans forward, his hands sliding from his thighs to his knees. He's interested now. Is he worried? A short look at his face tells him he can't tell. His features are blank.

“I … I don't know. It's like I've seen this before somewhere. But I can't remember where.”

He shifts in the armchair, stands up and walks to the window. Dark alleys, just a breath of light from the street-lamps.

 

“Did you like it?” Hannibal's voice still smooth, never judging.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you enjoy taking control over that girl, Will? Did it pleasure you to bereave her of her deepest secrets?”

Will swallows.

“You think that's what this is about? Robbing her of her secrets by pulling out her guts?” His voice is brittle, he shifts his glasses up his nose again. Hears Hannibal stand up, too.

“I do not know. But I am interested in what it makes you feel.”

Slowly he turns around to Hannibal, gaze flickering over the doctor's face. Hannibal's lips curl into a smile ever so slightly. A warm hand on his shoulder.

“It … it doesn't seem …”

Hannibal leans in closer, Will can feel the warmth of his fingers through the fabric of his shirt. He bites his lip again. Closes his eyes. And breathes:

“… doesn't seem so bad.”

 

“Taking pleasure in her destruction?” Hannibal asks.

“Taking control,” Will admits.

“Do you feel like you're not in control, Will?”

For a split second their gazes meet. Will turns his head. The fragrance of Hannibal's perfume so close. Clean, yet musky. A forest after rain.

“I don't know, doctor. You tell me.”

Hannibal takes a step back, then walks to his desk, leans against it.

“Does the killer try to take control?”

“Yes and no. He takes control over what he creates. His art. He refers to the girl as a rose. Or, at least, first he 'thought' she was a rose. He is educated, he is sure of himself and he painted this picture for us to see. It's a brutal picture, that he knows, but it is also a piece of art. The ravished girl, bloody and torn, naked with morning-dew on her skin. Her guts in the grass. Like she gave birth to them. This is 19 hundred-century art. He thought she was a rose … a rose … but she wasn't. She was just a girl.”

 

 He tells Jack to look for teachers, university professors, English, German and French. White male, in his forties or fifties, sophisticated, wealthy, but maybe with a criminal record for attempted rape or assault.

 

-

 

A Vivaldi aria finds her way through corridors and rooms, twirling through open doors in B minor. Will follows her into the kitchen. He had rung the bell and found the door slightly ajar. Hannibal had known he'd come.

The smell that greets him, even before Hannibal's smile, is delicious. Various pots and kitchen equipment on the table.

“Dinner is nearly ready,” Hannibal says, folds parsley into the frying pen and something that looks like aioli. Mixes it carefully with the rest – Will gets a glimpse of rice, peas, chicken and something that looks like octopus. Hannibal adds some salt and pepper, takes the wooden spoon and tastes. He chews carefully and slowly nods.

 

Will still feels awkward and out of place when Hannibal serves dinner. The whole dining room seems to him like a private luxury place with the opulent flower bouquet and the silver cutlery.

For a second he is confused when the music stops and the aria from his arrival starts again. The first tender waves of melody swirl around him. Hannibal comes in with two plates.

“Shellfish and chicken paella with saffron rice, chorizo and green peas,” he says and puts the plate down in front of Will.

Again the pleading voice, high and pure and angelic fills the room.

“You like that song?” Will murmurs and Hannibal sits down.

“Yes. Very much. It's from the opera Fernace, after the king of Pontus who killed his son before he could be taken from him by his enemy. The part you hear is when he has cut his throat and begs for his forgiveness. He sings 'Ah! my love was too great. I showed no mercy'.”

 

He wishes he couldn't understand it. Wish it wasn't so easy to imagine the scene. His hands bloody, the knife somewhere on the floor beside him. Beside the still form of his son. Unmoving. Eyes wide. Mouth opened for a silent scream that echoes in Will's ears. This is my love. I saved you. Now, all I need is your forgiveness. This is my design.

Anyway, he says:

“I can't understand that”.

“Of course you do,” Hannibal says, spiking a piece of chicken with his fork, “just as you can understand the man who raped and cut open that girl. You understand him and his pleasure and his need to prove to us he is truly an artist.”

“Yes and still … still there is something I've missed. Something that's right in front of me and I can't see it.”

Hannibal's lips curve into a smile. “I think it's time for desert.”

 

 They have Chocolate-coconut bread pudding with passion fruit sauce.

“Good god, you're like the witch from Hänsel and Gretel. You won't try and put me in the oven, would you?” Will jokes. He's slightly dizzy from the wine.

“I'd never do such a thing, Will,” Hannibal says and his eyes narrow as Will licks a bit of chocolate from his lower-lip. It sends a shiver down his spine. Shouldn't continue drinking. But then there is Hannibal, topping up his glass with more of the crimson fluid.

The shuddering surface slowly calming down. The crystal glass, reflecting the candle-light.

I thought you were a rose. He thought she was a rose. And the old witch, hunted by children.

And the sun pouring light like a blessing over the malicious one.

 

Yeah, he really shouldn't have more wine.

“Thank you for dinner, Hannibal,” he says and stands up. The doctor rises with him. And somehow he can't remember if he had called Hannibal by his first name all the time. Or is this the first time?

“You should not be driving,” Hannibal states and steps closer. The world around him shifts.

“There's lots o' things I shouldn't be doin',” he slurs and grins. The next moment he is closer, his fingers digging into Hannibal's shoulder. The fine cotton of his shirt. Elegantly the doctor tilts his head. “Explain yourself, dear Will.”

He doesn't look at his eyes. He looks at the high and round cheekbones. The small nose. The delicate lips. His skin is the only thing that gives away his age. It's a worn skin, but it still looks smooth. Could he taste the doctor's memories if he licked along his jawline?

He can feel Hannibal's breath on his forehead. There's a moment everything could happen.

Then that moment passes and Hannibal steps away.

“I'll fix you the guest room. I would be terribly sorry to be the cause of any accident that might happen if you try to drive home now.”

 

 Hannibal comes back while Will pours himself another glass of wine. It's the second bottle that night.

“Everything is ready.”

“I'm not. 'S not even 1am. Usually can't sleep till 2:30am.”

“I have appointments early tomorrow … but I wouldn't want to leave you now,” Hannibal says.

“You could try read me a story. That's what I wished my dad had done back then.”

“What kind of story do you prefer?”

Will chuckles.

“Anythin'. Or, no. No. Gimme somethin' dark. Gimme Baudelaire or Poe.”

“I'll fetch you a nice book then,” Hannibal says.

 

This should be strange. It is not.

He's lying on the couch, eyes narrowed. In the background the fire from the fireplace is sizzling and cracking. His gaze flickers over the form of Hannibal's broad shoulders. Then the doctor turns to him. He's sitting on a chair close to the couch, book in hand. This whole picture must look so ridiculous. Somehow Will doesn't care.

Hannibal's slender fingers turning the pages. He begins to read.

 

_Have pity, You alone whom I adore  
From down this black pit where my heart is sped, _

_A sombre universe ringed round with lead_  
 _Where fear and curses the long night explore._  
  
 _Six months a cold sun hovers overhead;_  
 _The other six is night upon this land._

“Wait,” Will says.

“What is the matter?” Hannibal glances down to him, he averts his eyes. Sits up.

“I think … I think I got it.”

“What?” Hannibal closes the book and places it on the nearby table.

It's like dawn has finally come after a pitch-black night. The red fireball burns away the dark.

“Shit, I knew it. This whole murder was set up. He copied it!”

“From who?”

“Not who – from _what_. God, Hannibal I have seen this before. Read this before. It's from _Les Chants du Maldoror_ by Laurtéamont.”

“From a book?”

“Yes! It's not a very popular book, only a few people know about it. That should help Jack to limit the scope.”

 

 

 Shadows flicker over the abandoned book. The old leather cover, a glimpse of yellow pages.

Will is texting Jack with the new information. Then he looks back to Hannibal who's watching his every move.

“So tell me Will … what is this book about? I haven't heard of it.” There seems to be honest astonishment about that fact. It feels like a little triumph.

“Kinda hart to tell … the main character is Maldoror, some say it translates to sun of evil. And yeah … Maldoror is evil. He wants to excel humankind in cruelty and ugliness it seems. Tries everything in his fight against anything good. And at some point he rapes a girl like our murderer.”

“And did you like the book despite its cruelty?” Hannibal's voice is quiet.

“It was fascinating,” Will admits.

 

“Why did it fascinate you?”

Will breathes in slowly and heavily. He's still dizzy from the wine, his moment of sobriety fading.

“Dunno. Guess 'cause it was still so artistic. Maybe even this interplay of cruelty and literal art … 'S like you know it's bad but it's still beautiful. You just can't help yourself.”

“So contradicting. To create such art surely is blissful.”

Will looks up at him, for a second their gazes meet.

“It's like seduction,” Will murmurs.

Hannibal tilts his head ever so slightly. Interested. Enough for Will to lean forward. Now his face blocks the way for the light of the fire, so Hannibal is covered by his shadow.

The wine is pulsating through his veins, he can feel its warmth. Even in his fingertips as he strokes along Hannibal's jawline.

 

“It's like because you know, you shouldn't do it, you really wanna. You just … can't … resist.”

Now he's close and he can feel Hannibal's even breath on his face. He's so calm. Waiting. Inviting.

He has his hand on the doctor's shoulder again, moves in closer.

And he brushes his lips against Hannibal's.

Eyes flutter shut. Then there is warmth pressing against warmth. A wet tongue licks over Will's lips and enters his mouth. He bites down on it gently. Hannibal sucks in a breath.

 

Will grabs his tie and pulls him closer. Hannibal lets himself be moved, there is no resistance. Now, Will fights off Hannibal's tongue and invades his mouth instead. What the hell he is doing here – again with a psychiatrist – he really doesn't know. He should know better, but he doesn't.

Slowly he can feel his body reacting to the sensation. It's just then that the doctor tilts his head to the side and breaks their kiss. He looks down to Will and his face his nearly blank, features calm, relaxed, but the hint of a smile.

He adjusts his tie and says: “I think you should go to bed, Will. You certainly had a bit too much wine.”

 

 

The frustration is hot and burns through him. He lets his hand slide down his body. He lies in the guest room. He isn't going to do the polite thing. He isn't stopping.

Hannibal's voice, his lips curling ever so slightly. And his tongue.

His breath hitches when he imagines Hannibal sucking him off.

 

 

 He skips breakfast. Hannibal doesn't complain.

He's at Jack's office 30 minutes later, sipping bad coffee and thinks of Hannibal in his morning gown. What the hell did he think he did last night? Shame claws at his back. His head is aching from too much wine. Fuck, what did he think? And god, the sheets.

He had never even thought about Hannibal in any sexual context, maybe except wondering whether he had an affair. But never in 'Hannibal and him'.

Another trick of his unstable mind, huh?

“So, Will. We have a few suspects and I want you to talk to them. If the killer is one of them, you will know, right?”

“I … I don't know, Jack. I'm not a prophet.”

“But you will try.” It's not a question. Will nods and keeps his eyes to the ground.

 

 

“So you're not an FBI agent?” The man in front of him cocks an eyebrow. He's in his early forties, dark brown hair, prominent jawbones, thin lips. Perfectly shaven. Wears a black suit.

They sit in the interview room. Walls blank, dark grey. Steele table and chairs. The man smiles up at him smugly. Tries to catch his gaze. His name is Michael Flores.

“Special Agent,” Will corrects him and shoves his glasses up his nose up again. Then his gaze flickers over the table. Glossy pictures from the murder laid out. The only colour in this room. Pale cheeks, curled lashes with morning dew. The bright green grass. The brown-red mess of her guts between her legs.

“You seen that girl before Mr Flores?” he murmurs, his voice slurring over the syllables.

“No.”

Will can't tell if he's lying. It's entirely possible he's never seen her before. But he could have.

This is his fifth interview. What he can say, is that that man is maybe a bit too cocky and calm to be an innocent man. Which still doesn't mean he has killed her.

 

“You a fan of 19th century art?” The direct approach. This time he looks up into his eyes. Is there a spark igniting? Got cha.

Will sighs. Swallows. Can feel the eyes of Jack and Hannibal on him. That was nearly too easy.

“Does that make me a murderer?” The man is adjusting his tie. A movement that reminds him of Hannibal. As does the smile that curls his lips. He believes he is in power. He believes he's still in a position to look down on him. Does Hannibal look down on him? A light chuckle fills the room.

“ _Special_ Agent Graham, would you like to answer me?”

“You killed her.”

“What makes you think that?” A hint of panic in his voice, underneath the faked calmness. So not like Hannibal. So not in control.

Without another word he stands up. Leaves the room before the man can say another word.

 

Jack watches him with determination in his eyes. Satisfaction in the way he presses his lips tight together.

“Good work,” he comments before going through the door Will just left. Hannibal looks at him. His hair neatly combed back, a burgundy tie around his neck (Will just remembers how it felt to pull him _closer_ ), a black shirt, jacket and slacks. And a burgundy kerchief in his right front pocket. He's like a carefully composed piece of art. And contrary to the man whose name he hasn't even bothered to remember he is in control. Always.

“How do you say, a penny for your thoughts, dear Will,” the doctor says and Will bites his lower lip.

“You're a predator,” Will says before he can think better of it. Regrets it immediately.

 

Hannibal doesn't mind, it seems. He leans back (still comfortable, still in control).

“It's a matter of fact that there are alpha, beta or omega types when it comes to men. Even though, the lines blur. From your perception … what kind do you think you are?”

Will laughs nervously.

“It's probably appropriate to say I'm an omega since I clearly do not enjoy most company and prefer to be anti social.” He tries to make it sound witty and light. 'Course it doesn't work.

“Does it trouble you?”

“Being anti social? No. Trying to be social? Yeah.”

Hannibal opens the door, lets Will step out first (polite, in control).

 

“It doesn't trouble you to talk to me.” It's not a question.

“It did at first.”

The touch of Hannibal's hand on his back. Just lightly. Reassuring. Protective.

A drop of sweat runs down his temple. Maybe he has a fever coming. Again.

“Do you feel not well?” Hannibal steps closer. Will feels hot. Suddenly his heart is beating fast. Hannibal's delicate fingers on his forehead. And he thinks of how good it felt to move his tongue against Hannibal's. And from the look the doctor gives him, he knows.

“I'm sorry if I …” he slurs. Hannibal shushes him.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” the doctor offers instead.

 

 

They drive in silence. When Hannibal pulls in the driveway to his house, Will sighs.

“Thank you very much.”

“It was no trouble.”

For a moment they just sit there, Will delaying to get out and Hannibal patient. Then he gets out, winks at him, feeling awkward doing so, and walks to his house.

 

 

She has her guts on a silver plate. She is naked and the Vivaldi aria curls around her.

_My love is too great. I show no mercy._

Then there is Hannibal's face. Worn skin shifts under high and round cheekbones. Lips stretch, smoothing out the creases. Wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. A whetted appetite.

Is it his or Hannibal's? He can't tell.

On the head board of the dark walnut-wood table she takes a seat. Placing the silver plate in the middle. She smiles and grabs a handful of spleen.

So they have dinner with her.

 

 

Will awakes. Like being underwater, then the first rush of oxygen.

Sweat glues the sheets to his body. He breathes heavily.

A fast look to his alarm clock. 5am.

Won't be able to sleep now, anyway. Without thinking about it he grabs his mobile phone. Speed dial. Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring.

“Yes, hello?” Hannibal asks, accent even heavier than usual. He's just woken him up.

“Oh fuck,” Will says and realises what he has done.

“Will, is everything all right?” The rustling of clothes, a body shifting.

“I'm sorry, I … I had a bad dream. I didn't mean to call. I'm sorry.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Will hesitates. Hannibal waits. Then he decides to tell him.

 

“Where you hungry when you awoke?” Hannibal's voice is smooth.

It takes a moment to think about that. Listen to his body.

“Yes,” Will admits, quietly, his voice only a whisper.

“Do you want me to make you breakfast? I could be there in an hour or so.”

A sigh leaves his lips. He closes his eyes and breathes in.

“Would you do that?”

“Yes.”

 

 

The sun is slowly creeping over the top of the trees. A gold-red ball, smudged by fog.

When Will opens the door he can smell the morning dew on the grass.

He steps aside. Lets Hannibal in.

Hannibal carefully places the tupperware on the table, uses the plates and the cutlery Will has already laid out to fix them two plates. Then the smell of hot, fresh coffee fills the room.

They sit down and eat in silence. All Will tries to think about is being grateful. For the food. For Hannibal being there. For not being alone now.

 

Somewhere through their meal his alarm clock goes off. With a silent curse on his mouth Will is standing, rushing upstairs. His mobile phone blinks. A new message from Jack. They don't have enough proof to bring Flores behind bars. Jack wants him to come right away and find them some evidence.

He groans silently and goes back downstairs.

Hannibal has already cleaned up most of their stuff, except Will's plate.

“What is it?” he asks and rolls down his sleeves, drying his hands with a cloth.

“Jack wants me to come right away. They don't have enough evidence to arrest Flores.”

“Finish your breakfast first,” Hannibal says and gestures him to sit down. Will complies.

 

 

Hannibal drives them back to Baltimore.

First, Will doesn't want him to, but the doctor insists.

“Sometimes … sometimes I'm not sure who I am,” he admits quietly. Eyes closed, breath shallow, his head against the window. The glass damp from his breath.

“You are Will Graham. You are who you've always been,” Hannibal says calm, impassive and somehow it helps him. He runs a hand through his still sweaty curls.

“Thank you.”

 

They arrive when the sun is already up, gleaming in the grey-blue sky.

The whole thing is not exactly helping. Jack is so close to snapping it'd only take one wrong word. Will is careful, tries to find any evidence with the rest of the team. But Flores is an intelligent man. They don't find a thing. They have to let him go. Jack is furious.

And apparently it's Will's fault now. Not that the FBI agent says anything alike but it's clear enough.

 

“Good god,” Will murmurs, finally having a moment to himself. He has a fresh cup of coffee in front of him. When he drinks a sip he burns his tongue. Not his day. He presses his knuckles against his temples, trying to suppress the coming headache. Already took five aspirin today.

The click click click of pumps on the linoleum floor. Alana sits down next to him.

“He doesn't mean it–-” Will cuts her off with a swipe of his hand.

“Yeah he does. He means it exactly like this.”

“Will,” her voice is soft, caring. For a second he looks up at her. Her smooth skin, her natural beauty only enhanced with a bit of mascara and nude lipstick.

“I didn't mean to be rude,” he whispers and averts his gaze. He feels sadness tangle in his stomach. And guilt. Guilt of not being stable enough to be with Alana.

“I know.”

“Maybe you should go now.”

“If you want me to.”

 

He's alone again. Jack's thunderous voice echoing in his head. But there's nothing he could've done. Flores might not be as good as the Chesapeake Ripper but he is still an intelligent psychopath. Hard to find, nearly impossible to catch. They knew to well what they were doing.

Flores won't do anything wrong now, he'll be careful. Will sighs and since there is nothing here to do for him (no matter what other murder investigation might be going on). So he starts walking to the parking lot until he realizes that Hannibal had driven. God damn shit.

So back into the cave of the lion (whom he can still hear roaring as he passes his bureau).

Where the hell was Hannibal?

 

“I was looking for you, Will,” he hears his voice just then. He turns around and tries a smile.

“Could you take me home again?”

“Yes. Or I can make dinner for us both.”

“I'm not particularly hungry.”

“Will, you should worry about your body.”

“Doctor, you should worry for your floor. I'd rather not spill my guts out on your carpet.”

 

Hannibal just nods, with a quiet “Whatever you want, Will,” and it does all to make him feel like an ungrateful piece of shit.

When they are leaving the parking lot he mumbles: “Maybe a glass of wine at your place?”

Hannibal glances at him, his face blank.

“You don't have to do this to please me. You are free to decline my offers at any time.”

“No, I'm sorry. Really. I would like to have a glass of wine with you.”

It's too late to say anything else when he remembers all that happened when they had their last glass of wine. Just don't drink too much. Stay in control, Will.

Yeah, because he was so good at staying in control. He swallows.

When he looks into the rear mirror this Mercedes is still a few cars behind them. Paranoia.

 

It's comfortably warm at Hannibal's place. He has come to love the clean, carefully arranged rooms with the flower bouquets and the baroque paintings. It's so contrary to his own house and still it begins to feel like home.

He relaxes, his muscles stop tensing. Hannibal is in the kitchen and comes back with two glasses of wine. The doctor has shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The light hair on his forearm, the veins that lead to his delicate fingers. Strong enough to cut with a knife yet not too big to use a scalpel. A surgeon's hands.

Will takes a sip of his wine.

“So how does it make you feel?” Hannibal sits down on the couch, crossing his legs.

“Alcohol always makes me a bit dizzy.”

“I was referring to the fact that they can't arrest Michael Flores.”

 

Will laughs lowly, not nervous but neither completely comfortable.

“I don't know. I … I might be afraid of more dreams. But then again, they never stop.” He says it with a smirk. It's a weak attempt to cover his exhaustion. For a moment neither of them says anything.

Suddenly there is a nearly audible scratching noise. Momentarily Hannibal tenses, eyes wide, listening. They might not even have heard it if they had talked.

Hannibal rises from his chair, laying his index-finger on his lips. Will nods. Again the scratching noise. With a swift motion Hannibal takes off his shoes and moves behind the door. Will rises, too, carefully not to make any noise he slides behind one of the bookshelves. They both are now not visible to any intruder. His heart beats fast. God damn it, why didn't he take a gun with him?

 

The door opens. Slowly. Carefully. A dark silhouette moves in, walks one, two steps into the room. Startles at the sight of the abandoned wine glasses. That's the moment Hannibal strikes. He's up behind him, straddling him. His face calm, lips just slightly parted. But the man – Flores – is fast. Somehow he can escape Hannibal's grip. Punches him in the stomach. A groan comes over the doctor's lips. Will is in front of Flores the next second. His fist connects with Flores' jawbone. Then Hannibal is up again, swiping Flores' legs off the floor with a precise kick and – and then the warm light of the chandeliers reflected in a small but lethal blade. The scalpel from his desk.

“I'd rather not move now, Mr Flores. I might accidentally cut your throat.” And without even looking at him: “Will, call the police. Jack will be happy to finally have his evidence.”

 

 

“How can Flores be so stupid?” Will mutters to himself when the police is gone again, including Flores this time.

“Certain people act on instinct and feelings when cornered.” Hannibal gives him his (newly filled) glass of wine. A small smile curves his lips. He's as calm and impassioned as ever. Not like somebody into whose house a murderer has broken into just a few hours ago. God damn, is there anything that could upset Hannibal? Make him loose control. And how would that end?

A shiver runs down Will's spin at the thought.

“Do you sometimes act on instinct, doctor?”

“Why are you asking, Will? Are you curious what will happen if I do?” There is amusement in Hannibal's voice.

Instead of an answer he drowns the rest of wine in one go.

 

“The last time we drank I kissed you,” Will says, “actually you kissed me back. Wasn't that acting on instinct?” The wine gives him enough courage to say these words. Hell, he hopes he won't regret them later.

Hannibal doesn't answer him and it makes him mad. The doctor simply looks into his wine glass, face unmoving then drinks a sip. Savours the taste on his tongue it seems, when he closes his eyes.

Before Will can think about it he is up. Heartbeat, heartbeat, dudum dudum dudum. What is he doing? He hovers over the doctor who looks up at him.

 

Then Hannibal is on his feet and Will has his arms around his neck and they are kissing. It's a gentle kiss, two open mouths pressing lightly against each other, the tips of their tongues touching.

Will feels the heat creeping up and down his body. Feels the need. Fingers slide over cotton and silk and then into Hannibal's hair, ruffling it. Become undone, he thinks, I want to see you.

And Hannibal is gentle and soft until his hand finds Will's throat and he pushes him against the wall. Not following with his body. Just watching him. Will's lips twitch, he can feel his pants getting too tight when Hannibal _squeezes_. Air is short. He doesn't mind.

The doctor looks him up and down, lips slightly parted, the right corner of his mouth shifted upwards. A shiver runs down his spine. Then Hannibal takes a step closer. The glint in his eyes is hunger. And maybe it's Hannibal's hunger that has whetted his own appetite.

 

He still is not entirely sure he should do this. But he wants to.

Hannibal steps aside, then leads him upstairs. His heart is beating fast. Adrenaline rushing through his veins. It's like being afraid –– and maybe he is.

Slowly Hannibal opens the door to his bedroom, lets Will in first. He can hear the door closing behind him. Light from the street-lamps falls into the room, paints everything with a orange-yellow glow. There is Hannibal's breath on his neck. Goosebumps on his arms. Behind him Hannibal shifts, he can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Hannibal's hands move around him, slowly pulling off his jacket. Opening the buttons of his shirt. His fingertips ghosting over Will's skin. He sucks in a breath, closes his eyes. When Hannibal goes down on his knees and pulls his trousers down, he feels vulnerable. The air is cold on his skin.

 

Open-mouthed kisses on his lower back. He shivers. Hannibal parts his cheeks carefully and licks over the sensitive flesh.

“Oh god,” he whispers, voice husky as Hannibal's tongue enters him. Then starts moving in and out. The created noises are so obscene they make him tremble. This is a sensation totally new to him.

He can't say he isn't disappointed when Hannibal stops and stands up again. Hurriedly Will steps out of his shoes, pulls off his socks and turns to Hannibal who is still fully clothed.

Again, this is about power and he knows it. This is about fear. And maybe he is afraid, yes, but he is also harder than he can ever remember.

He steals a soft kiss from Hannibal's lips, then crawls onto the bed and leans down on his elbows. The doctor watches his every move, devours his sight. Will is high on adrenaline.

The only thing Hannibal takes off are his shoes, the next second he's on the bed, too. Hovering over Will. Will grins, licks his lips. And puts his hand over the outlines of Hannibal's erection. The doctor's eyes narrow and Will starts moving his hand.

“Do you want to fuck me, doctor?” he murmurs with a slight grin.

“Yes,” Hannibal breathes.

They kiss again, Hannibal pushing his tongue into his mouth. He bites down on Hannibal's lips and can't resist to start clawing the clothes off of Hannibal's skin. He wants him to be naked, wants this to be raw.

 

His head is thrown back on the pillow and Hannibal is kissing his inner thigh, licking over the head of his cock. Without even noticing he grabs a fistful of Hannibal's hair and pushes him down faster. The hot wetness of Hannibal's mouth, he sits up a bit, watching the doctor's cheeks hollow as he sucks. Soft moans fill the room as Hannibal moves up again and presses down. They rut against each other, Hannibal's hand on his neck, stroking over his jaw, over his cheek.

“I want you … please, _please_ ,” he whispers hotly against Hannibal's ear.

 

The doctor opens him up, slowly, carefully. The lube is cold at first, then gets warmer through the movements and soon Will is aching for him. When Hannibal opens the condom he takes it from his hands and rolls it down on Hannibal's cock. Then he pushes him onto his back and moves over him. Hannibal's hands on his hips, guiding him, he grabs his cock and then slowly sinks down. He hisses at the pain. For a few heartbeats he has to close his eyes. Tries to breath even.

“Relax,” Hannibal murmurs against his cheek, strokes over his curls. “Take all the time you need.”

 

After a while he starts moving. Carefully at first. But soon it's him pushing himself up and down. Sweat glistens on their bodies. Hannibal's fast breathing so close to his ear. His eyes are narrowed and his lips (puffy and red where Will has bitten him) slightly parted. Fingers clawing into his skin, leaving bruises at his hipbones. Yes, yes, he wants all of that.

A loud groan comes from his lips as Hannibal starts moving faster, too, thrusting up into him more forcefully. Yes, this is what he needs. Again and again, the hot flesh inside him. Then Hannibal's cock hits a point inside him that makes him sees stars. Hannibal must've noticed because now he shifts slightly so he can thrust into him at the same angle more easily.

 

At some point Hannibal flips them over. He's writhing underneath him now. Hannibal's hand stroking him along to their rhythm. Flesh against flesh and need intertwined with need. The world shifts out of focus, there's only the crumpled sheets underneath them, and their bodies, giving and taking. His nails leave red marks on Hannibal's back, over his arms, then Hannibal lays a hand on his chest and pushes him down into the mattress. His hand finds Will's throat again and squeezes lightly. Will's going to come, soon. Hannibal speeds up their rhythm. Until he's only light and heat and red-hot desire. Then they fall.

 

 

He's drifting in and out of sleep.

A gentle kiss on his temple. The sheets clinging to his body. A hand in his hair.

“Hannibal …”

“Hush, sleep now.”

So he does.

 

When he awakes, he is alone. For a terrible moment he doesn't know where he is.

Then the memories come back. He blushes hotly and notices he's still naked.

He's slept with Hannibal. Good god.

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs into the pale morning light that seeps through the curtains. Then he grins.

He can't even remember how long ago it is that he had sex. Not to speak of good sex and not the awkward lets-get-this-over-with kind of sex.

He stands up and picks up his clothes, dresses quickly. He can still smell Hannibal on his skin.

Downstairs he can hear a kettle boil and the faint sound of instruments. Is he making breakfast and coffee?

With still naked feet he walks downstairs, stopping in the middle of the stairs and sits down. Chuckles lightly to himself. Endorphins and a bit of adrenaline sweetening his mood. He knows it's just the aftermath, but he can't help the warmth he feels. The trust.

 

“Will? I've made breakfast ,” Hannibal says smiling as he steps out of the kitchen. The Vivaldi aria is playing in the background. Hannibal wears his morning gown and his hair is still ruffled. He looks gorgeous.

“Coming,” Will murmurs and walks down the rest of the stairs. He's lucky to have him.

Not quite sure how to act now, he closes the kitchen door behind him.

“Smells delicious,” he says.

“Are you hungry?” Hannibal asks smiling.

“Not really. But I think you've whetted my appetite.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Hannibal reads to Will is Baudelaire's "De Profundis Clamavi" and you can find the complete version here:  
> http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/de-profundis-clamavi/  
> Title is taken from the 1st Guns 'n Roses Album.  
> The Vivaldi aria is Farnace - Atto II: Perdona O Figlio Amato  
> Couldn't find a yt version but you can listen to a part or buy it for 1$ here:  
> http://www.amazon.de/Farnace-Atto-Perdona-Figlio-Amato/dp/B001QEIYFM
> 
> This is my first (and probably not last) try in this fandom. Not so sure of this work, but I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Thank you all so much.


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